


I Get By With A Little Help

by mailroomorder



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Blangst, Blangst Fic Challenge, Depression, Gen, M/M, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mailroomorder/pseuds/mailroomorder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a Blangst Prompt of the Day: Blaine’s parents notice that he is displaying signs of depression and take him to a therapist. Takes you through the process of Blaine coping with his depression and seeing a psychiatrist.</p><p> Rebloggable on <a href="http://mailroomorder.tumblr.com/post/60682632306/i-get-by-with-a-little-help">Tumblr</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	I Get By With A Little Help

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Alianne](http://www.alianne.tumblr.com/) for looking it over for me. 
> 
> Full Blangst Prompt #517 at bottom. Apologies to OP for going off canon. I tried writing it canon compliant but it just sounded contrived and forced.
> 
> This is NOT canon compliant. It is semi-canon compliant in the sense that Kurt and Blaine broke up. However, it does not follow canon completely.
> 
> Also, I want people to know that this fic deals with depression. Blaine isn't going through a 'rough patch.' He is clinically depressed. It contains anger, melt downs, some foul language, and Blaine doing uncharacteristic things because of his inability to understand and control his emotions. So major trigger warning for depression. Read at your own risk. If you have any questions you can send me a PM on [Tumblr](http://www.mailroomorder.tumblr.com/)

                “Salad?” Mary asks, eyebrows quirked up in question.

                Blaine shakes his head and goes back to playing with his food. Mary can’t help but send a worried glance at her husband. He picks up her queue.

                “How’s school?” He asks cordially in between bites of chicken.

                Blaine shrugs. “Good,” he answers, monotone.

                Bill nods his head, directing a curious look at his wife, as if asking, _what should I do now?_

                They spend the rest of dinner mostly quiet, Bill and Mary talking only occasionally.

                When they finish eating Blaine carries his nearly full plate to the trash and dumps it all in. He helps finish clearing the table and putting the dishes in the dishwasher, and wipes down the table.

                “I’m gonna go to my room,” he says as he walks out of the kitchen, his back to his parents.

                They just stare at each other for a second, not quite sure what to do.

                It’s not a surprise, per se. But it’s still an anomaly. Blaine’s been acting strangely for weeks now, and they’re not sure why.

                They finish cleaning up together, talking about their day and ignoring the strange happenings of their son. Yes, those conversations they save for late at night in their bedroom.

* * *

                “I need you to sign something,” Blaine says a week later. It’s late afternoon—early evening—on a Thursday. Mary has just gotten home from work, a bit earlier than normal, and is rushing to get changed and ready for a doctor’s appointment.

                “I’m in a rush, Blaine,” she says, walking up to the office so she can put her bags down.

                Blaine follows her.

                “You just have to sign it. It won’t take long.” He passes her a piece of paper and a pen.

                Mary puts the paper down on her office table, scanning it for the blank line she’s meant to initial.

                The first thing she sees, though, makes her pause.

                On the top of the page, in bright blue letters, is a D, circled and underlined. It’s a quiz. A History quiz, it seems.

                She leaves the pen hanging mid-air and looks at Blaine.

                “Blaine?” She asks, voice raising in question.

                “Hmm?” He’s not even looking at her.

                “Blaine, honey,” she tries again. “What is this?”

                “Just a pop quiz,” he shrugs, looking mildly uncomfortable. “It won’t happen again, Mom. I was unprepared.”

                “Do you need help in History, Blaine?”

                “Mom!” He says forcefully, mood changing from composed to edgy in a matter of seconds. “It’s a quiz! Just sign it. I’ll do better next time.”

                She nods her head slowly and initials the paper, handing it back to an exasperated Blaine.

                She walks into her room and changes her outfit before grabbing her purse and running back into her car. She spends the drive over trying to rationalize why her son, an honors and AP student, would have gotten a failing grade.

* * *

                “Bill, he got a _D_ ,” she says later that night when Mary and Bill in their room together.

                She’s reclining on the bed with the TV on, volume turned down low as she talks to Bill who’s in the bathroom washing up, the door open.

                “It’s his first _D_ ,” Bill reasons, applying shaving cream.

                “But it’s a _D_. It’s a failing grade,” Mary continues on.

                Bill’s silent for a bit as he begins to shave, and Mary goes back to watching _Friends_.

                “Maybe it’s a fluke,” Bill interrupts. Mary looks up, can see his reflection in the mirror, and knows that even he doesn’t believe that. She stares at him knowingly. “Alright. I _want_ it to be a fluke.”

                “And it’s a fluke that he’s lost at _least_   ten pounds in the past month and a half?” She argues.

                “Mary,” Bill sighs, washing the remaining shaving cream off of his face and then drying it. “I think that may be an exaggeration.” He grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste and begins brushing his teeth.

                Mary keeps talking.

                “It may be an exaggeration but you can’t deny he’s looking thinner,” she says, panicked edge to her voice. “And his _mood._ I can hardly ever gauge him. There’s something _wrong_ here.”

                Bill spits and washes his mouth out, turning around and walking towards Mary. He cups her chin and forces her to look at him. He wipes the stray brown hair out of her face.

                “I know,” he says seriously. “The best we can do is be here for him.”

                She nods and he kisses her, lightly on the forehead, before walking to his side of the room and getting in bed.

                “This weekend,” he continues, “We’ll spend some quality time with him. Do something together as a family. Something he likes. Maybe he’s just in a funk.”

                Mary nods, and Bill knows she doesn’t believe what he’s saying—doesn’t believe that it’s only a funk. He rolls over and turns his light out. He has to be up early in the morning.

* * *

                “So, what do you think?” Bill asks Blaine the next day over dinner.

                Blaine’s playing with his food, occasionally taking only a very small bite and chewing very slowly, thinking about his father’s proposition.

                “About going to Columbus,” Blaine repeats deliberately.

                “Yeah,” his father reaffirms. “Your mother and I think it would be nice to spend some time together. We can hang out in the city, go shopping—I know you love the stores there. And maybe hit up a museum.”

                Blaine lifts up some mashed potatoes with his fork and turns his fork over, watching them splatter to his plate.

                “Sure,” Blaine sighs, looking up and plastering a smile on his face that comes out more like a dissatisfied grimace.

                Bill nods his head. “Great. We’ll probably leave around eleven so we can skip the rush but get there in time for lunch. And this way you can still go out tonight.”

                Mary looks carefully at Blaine, hoping he’ll take the bait that her husband planted.

                Blaine just nods though.

                After dinner when they’re cleaning, Mary brings up Blaine’s weekend plans again.

                “I hope we’re not disrupting any plans you may have had with friends,” she says while at the sink, washing the dishes. Blaine is wiping down the tables in the dining room and kitchen.

                “I’m not going out tonight,” he responds. “I’m tired.”

                “Is there nothing going on tonight?” She pushes.

                Blaine just stands there, staring at her without blinking. “I’m tired,” he says more forcefully, almost a challenge.

                Mary nods and goes back to the dishes, trying to ignore her conscience when it tells her that there’s something wrong when her once sociable and thriving son hasn’t gone out on a Friday night in over a month.

                After Blaine wipes down the counters and Swiffer’s the floor, he goes upstairs. Mary can hear his door close just seconds later.

* * *

                Columbus isn’t as much fun as Bill and Mary were hoping it would be. It certainly doesn’t break Blaine out of his funk, and only seems to exhaust him more.

                When they get there they go out for lunch, which Blaine, per usual, hardly eats any of. Afterwards, they ask him if he’d like to go shopping or go to a museum, but the only response they get out of him is a standard shrug, followed by a, “Whatever you guys want.”

                He sighs a lot, and rubs his hand over his face. His eyes seem to almost have permanent black circles underneath them, and Mary can’t stop looking at them with a concerned look on her face. Every time Blaine catches her staring she just smiles and looks away, saying something random in the hopes that it will distract Blaine.

                They go shopping and it’s an effort to get Blaine to try anything on. The few items he _does_ try on are picked out by Mary with Bill walking cautiously beside to two of them, not wanting to exasperate Blaine any more than he already seems to be. He’s snapped twice already, once at lunch and once when Bill pushed him to find some more clothes to try on.

                After a failed attempt at shopping, they go to the history museum—a place Blaine used to love visiting when he was younger. He wanders off on his own but is sure to stay in the general vicinity of his parents, and though he rarely smiles it’s still the happiest Bill and Mary have seen him in the last few months.

                They walk side by side, occasionally holding hands and pointing out interesting facts and exhibits, their gaze periodically searching out for their son.

                After the museum Bill suggests going out to eat, but Blaine rebuffs it, claiming to still be full from lunch. They go back to the parking garage where their car is parked and head home. When they get there Bill throws a frozen pizza in the oven and Mary makes a salad. Blaine picks at a small slice of pizza and eventually finishes his salad before heading upstairs with the excuse that he’s had a long day.

                Mary and Bill stay downstairs at the kitchen island.

                “We have to do something,” Mary says, sitting across from Bill, eyes boring into his.

                “Yes,” Bill agrees. “We do.”

                They spend that night online. They look up medical sites and the Yellow Book, compile a Word Document of all the problems and differences they have seen in Blaine lately—all of the changes. They spend the next week talking to close friends, asking if anyone has any recommendations for a therapist. They eventually take the recommendations and spend a few hours online one weekend Googling each therapist, each psychologist, each psychiatrist, until they come up with one that they think might work.

                The next Monday during a lull in her office, Mary calls.

* * *

                “Blaine,” Mary says exactly one week after the trip to Columbus.

                Blaine’s sitting on the couch in his pajamas watching Saturday morning cartoons, a half empty bowl of cereal sitting on the side table next to him.

                “I was wondering if we could talk for a second,” she motions to Bill, who’s standing next to her.

                “Sure,” Blaine says, muting the television.

                When Mary and Bill take a few cautious steps forward, Blaine’s demeanor changes from impassivity to that of mild paranoia, his eyes bugging out and his skin paling.

                His parents each take a seat beside him, and Blaine’s not sure where to look, head going back and forth to both of them, giving himself whiplash.

                “We’ve…noticed some things,” Bill pushes out, and Mary grabs onto Blain’s hand, squeezing as if it would reassure him that nothing’s wrong—that he’s done nothing wrong.

                Blaine remains quiet, and Mary picks up from there.

                “We just—we want you to know that we love you,” she says. “And that we’re worried about you.” Her eyes begin to water, and Blaine’s hand goes clammy.

                “Worried about what?” He asks, voice on the precipice of anger.

                “The past few months you’ve seemed a bit disoriented,” she continues.

                “I’m not disoriented,” Blaine snaps, pulling his hand out of her grip.

                Bill and Mary struggle for words then, stuttering a bit as they try and pick up where they left off.

                “We just want you to be happy,” Bill supplies.

                “Well I am!” Blaine says.

                “You just don’t seem as…vibrant as before,” Bill words his thought carefully.

                “Do you not see my face? Does this not _scream_ vibrant?” Blaine hollers, pointing to his now lively face.

                “We’re not saying you’re not,” Mary covers up. “We just have noticed some things.”

                “Like what?” Blaine asks with venom.

                Bill flounders for a second. “Well, you don’t eat very often—“

                “I’m not always hungry!” Blaine interrupts.

                “—and you don’t go out with your friends anymore—“

                “We hang out all the time,” Blaine grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

                “—and your grades are slipping and…Blaine,” Bill says softly, wishing his son would look at him. “We know you haven’t been showing up to work.”

                “What?” Blaine pauses, surprised and taken off guard.

                “Your boss called us,” Mary says, and Blaine turns to look at her, his face a blank slate and his mouth hanging open. “We know you were suspended from work.”

                “And that’s okay!” Bill’s quick to get out, hands in front of him with his palms out, hoping to placate Blaine. “It’s okay that these things are happening. We’re _not_ upset with you,” he says, wanting to get this particular point across. “We’re not. We just,” he takes a deep breath. “We want you to see someone.”

                “See someone,” Blaine repeats. “See someone,” he says again, as if trying to work his mouth around the words. “You mean like a shrink?” he asks, before standing up so fast that he nearly falls down. “I’m not seeing a shrink!” he laughs. “I’m not crazy.”

                “We know,” Bill says. “We’re not saying you are.”

                “We just think it may be beneficial to talk to someone. Just talk, Blaine.”

                “Well you can’t force me,” Blaine says defiantly.

                There’s a pause in the conversation and Mary and Bill look at each other.

                “Blaine,” Mary says. “Your first appointment is on Thursday after school.”

                Blaine’s eyes begins to water. He stands in front of the couch where his parents are still sitting, arms crossed around his chest, and he begins to cry.

                “You fucking assholes,” he screams, arms suddenly waving in front of him. He storms off upstairs. He spends the rest of the weekend with his door closed and lock. He doesn’t come down for dinner. On Sunday, Mary and Bill don’t see him until lunch when he stumbles passed them in the living room. He goes to the kitchen, grabs a bowl of cereal and stomps back up to his room.

                When they go to their room later in the day, before dinner time, there’s a piece of paper taped to their door.

                “I fucking hate you,” it says in black pen, all capitalized and scratched out in haste. Mary takes it down and closes the door so she can cry. She never thought that helping her son would actually make her feel like she’s harming him.

* * *

                Blaine _does_ come down for dinner. He sits on the opposite side of their six person dining set so he’s as far away from his parents as possible. He eats his dinner with purpose, staring at them intently, as if proving to his parents that he does, indeed, eat.

                Before he goes to bed he lets them know under no uncertain terms that he will not be home after school the next day because he does have friends, and it is those friends that he will be hanging out with.

                He comes home Monday at six-thirty for dinner where he pointedly asks for seconds.

                On Tuesday during lunch he sneaks into the bathroom and calls his boss. He apologizes profusely for missing work. He thinks about throwing up a bullshit excuse, but then remembers that his boss talked to his parents, and he’s not sure what his parents said. So citing something like sickness or family emergency, some bold faced lie, could backfire on him. Instead he grovels for forgiveness and his hours this week get reinstated. He hangs up and smiles knowing that he has a 4-9pm shift this Thursday.

                After school he goes to work—doesn’t bother to text him parents until they text him first around dinner time, asking where he is.

                _I’m at work. Can’t talk. Bye._

                When he comes home he casually and pompously tells his parents that he works this Thursday, sorry.

                The next morning before school and work his parents call Blaine’s boss and say Blaine has a doctor’s appointment Thursday, and ask if there’s any way for him to get his shift change. His boss complies, and Blaine’s now working a double on Saturday.

                He pitches a hissy fit and throws a lamp, crying hysterically and screaming profanities. He throws his arms in the air, gesticulating wildly as he screams his hatred. It gets so bad that Bill has to hold him down—wrap his arms around his son tightly. He stands behind Blaine and tries to fiercely hug the anger and sadness and pain out of him.

                Blaine doesn’t go to school that day and nor does his father go to work. Mary still does, but she promises them both to cut her day short and be home by three in the afternoon. When she goes to kiss a tear-streaked and weary eyed Blaine goodbye, Blaine flinches, pushing her off. He trudges silently to his room.

                Blaine spends all day in his room sleeping. Bill spends all day hiding the knives as a precaution.

                When Mary comes home at three it’s to an eerily quiet house. She goes to check on Blaine but finds that he’s asleep, and instead goes to Bill, who is outside getting some yard work done.

                “How was he?” She asks, giving him a light kiss on the cheek.

                “Quiet,” Bill responds, throwing some weeds into the weed pile. “He spent all day in his room.”

                Mary nods her head. They talk a bit more, but about nothing important. There’s a giant elephant in the room and they know it. They just don’t know what to do next.

                Blaine comes down for dinner but he won’t look at them and he won’t eat much. Mary ends up heating up some soup and giving it to Blaine in a mug. Blaine sips it slowly.

                “Can I have some toast? He asks, voice raspy and eyes still cast downwards.

                “Sure, honey,” Mary says. She stands up again and pulls out two pieces of bread, placing them in the toaster. “Butter?” she asks.

                “No thank you,” Blaine replies meekly. “My stomach hurts.”

                Mary nods, not that Blaine can see. And when the toast is done she puts it on a small plate and hands it to Blaine.

                “Thank you,” he says.

                It’s not an apology, but Mary assumes it’s about the best she’s going to get.

                Both Mary and Bill expect Blaine will be calling in sick on Thursday, too. So it’s a surprise when, after Bill has left for work and Mary is in her pajamas drinking coffee—expecting to stay home with Blaine—when Blaine walks down the stairs fully dressed and slinging his backpack with him.

                He sits at the kitchen island diagonal from his mother eating a small bowl of cereal. Mary sits there in shock, not quite sure what to say. Her and Bill are keeping their foot firmly planted on Blaine seeing a psychiatrist, but she’s not sure if she should remind Blaine that his appointment is today. She doesn’t want to upset him, but she doesn’t want Blaine to think that this isn’t going to happen. Ultimately, and after much consideration, she decides on a less direct route.

                “Your father will be home from work at three today,” she says. Blaine’s appointment is at four, and Bill and Mary both plan on taking him and waiting in the waiting room.

                Blaine just shakes his head and puts his empty bowl in the sink.

* * *

                Blaine gets home from school at three-fifteen. He has to leave Glee practice early, and when people ask why he just tells them he has a scheduling conflict and has to miss some of Glee. No one questions it and Blaine heaves a sigh of relief.

                He’s still not happy whatsoever with his parents meddling and with them trying to take control of his life. But he’s pretty positive that after the therapist sees him she’ll realize that he is indeed a well-adjusted teenager just going through a hard time, but who is still coping perfectly well. After coming to this conclusion, Blaine is sure, she’ll tell his parents that Blaine doesn’t really _need_ therapy and that he can continue on with his life happily.

                When he gets home he puts his backpack in his room and grabs a snack. They have to leave in fifteen minutes, and while he’s come to the understanding that this is something he has to go through with, he is still upset about it.

                A few minutes later when his mother calls him from the living room to tell him it’s time to leave, Blaine sighs and gets up.

                It can’t be that bad, he thinks.

* * *

                It’s pretty bad. The closer they get to the psychiatrist’s office the more fidgety Blaine gets. The angrier he gets, too. When his mother puts an arm on his shoulder as they walk through the door, he violently pushes it away, grunting under his breath, “ _Stop_.”

                He sits in the waiting room with his arms crossed and leg shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly everything is hitting him all at once and he feels like his body is about to rip itself out of his skin. When he’s called into the psychiatrist’s office he walks in and sits on the couch and doesn’t talk.

                For almost sixty minutes he doesn’t talk. Just sits there stalwart, arms crossed over his chest.

                His parents schedule him another appointment for the following week.

                Later that night he cries in his room, tears pouring out of his eyes as he bangs his fist against his head, cursing himself.

                He could have avoided all of this if he just _talked_ , he thinks. If he calmly told the therapist that he isn’t crazy and that everything is okay. Instead he sat there looking like a crazy person, and now _everyone_ is going to think he’s psychotic. And he swears he’s not psychotic. He’s just having a few issues right now. Nothing big! Nothing big, he says to himself. And now, at eighteen years old, he’s a blubbering mess in his bed, not even able to control his emotions. And for some unknown reason this fact just makes him even more upset, and being upset makes him cry. It’s cyclical in nature and he spends all night in the fetal position hating on himself.

                He cries so hard that he almost throws up. He hits his head so hard against his fists and his wall that he actually gets dizzy. He doesn’t sleep that night, he’s too busy hating himself for all of the stupid mistakes he’s made. It’s the small mistakes that get to him the most; all of the times he says the wrong thing in a conversation or waves at the wrong person in the hallway, thinking it’s a friend before realizing it is a stranger. He beats himself up over these things. And all night he can’t stop thinking about the stupid mistakes he’s made that week, and then how he sat silently and moodily in the office of a psychiatrist.

                He doesn’t go to school the next day. Won’t get out of bed.

                He does go out on Saturday, though.

                He gets out of bed late and calls a coworker to cover his shift. Then he grabs a small breakfast and tells his parents that he’s going to Sam’s house to hang out with him and Artie. Mary and Bill nod their head, and Blaine doesn’t get back until after dinnertime.

* * *

                It goes on like that for three weeks.

                Blaine has a decent week; he will hang out with friends, go to school, go to Glee club, and go to work. He’ll force himself to eat a bit more, smile as often as he sees fit, and occasionally talk to his parents. Then on Thursday he’ll leave Glee club early, always citing the same thing—a scheduling conflict—and show up to therapy where he will sit silently and resolutely for an hour.

                Later that night he’ll have a mini break down and refuse to get out of bed the next day. He’s missed quizzes, assignments, homework, and tests, but for some reason Fridays are the worst. He just can’t seem to _do_ anything. He’s too tired. He’s just really tired on Fridays.

                But then on Saturdays he forces himself up, a little worse for the wear, and goes out somewhere with friends, or goes to work, and forces himself to forget everything.

                The next Wednesday, however, he comes to a conclusion.

                “I’m not going to therapy tomorrow,” he tells his parents over dinner.

                “Blaine,” his father starts out slowly.

                “No,” Blaine interrupts. “I’m not going. You can’t make me.”

                “I hate to tell you this, kid, but I can.”

                “No,” Blaine says more forcefully. “I’m _not_   going.” His voice is raised and his hands are gripping the edges of the table.

                His mother steps in then. “Blaine, honey,” she says tiredly. “This isn’t a punishment.”

                “Well it sure feels like one,” Blaine replies.

                Mary ignores the statement. “We just want you to get some help.”

                “Well this isn’t _helping_ ,” Blaine argues.

                “Maybe it will if you keep trying,” his father urges.

                “Well I say it won’t,” Blaine contends.

                Bill rubs his face with his hand and heaves out a sigh.

                “Blaine, you _are_ going tomorrow,” he says with a hint of exhausted finality.

                Blaine snaps.

                He stands up and screams at his father, “No I will fucking _not_.”

                “Blaine,” his father demands. “Calm down.”

                “No!” Blaine screams back. “You can’t make me go! This is my life, not yours!”

                He’s screaming now, loudly.

                “You’re going. Now _sit down_.” His father orders.

                Blaine loses it then. He doesn’t quite know how it happens, but suddenly he’s picking up his plate and throwing it back onto the table. He’s sobbing loudly and brokenly as he watching the plate break into large chunks. He’s screaming, but he doesn’t quite know what it is that he’s screaming—just knows that it’s anger and hatred and most of it is directed at himself. He knows he’s sobbing about how the therapy isn’t helping, how it just makes him feel worse about himself. He screams and cries and yells.

                Almost immediately he feels arms restraining him from behind. He’s crying and shouting and pushing and pulling and trying to get away, but he can’t. He’s eventually wrestled into the living room and away from the broken glass. After a while he calms down a bit. He’s still crying, but he’s not angry anymore. To be honest, he’s not completely sure why he was angry in the first place. He has a raging headache, a heavy heart, and he just wants to sleep for a year. Sleep until he wakes up and everything is better.

                He slowly comes down from his hysterics, and when he wipes his eyes he realizes that he’s sitting on his father’s lap on the couch in the living room. He’s hiccupping a bit and still sniveling. His mother is kneeling on the ground in front of him, one of his hands enveloped by both of hers. He looks up for a second, eyes clear now, and sees the dining room table. He sees the glass strewn about everywhere and the broken plate. He sees his father cup upturned and lying on its side, as if he got up in such a rush that the jerk of the chair made the table move too fast for the cup to stay upright.

                When he views the damage he just cries some more, but this time out of sadness. He pulls his hand out of his mother’s grasp and hides his face in it.

                “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats like a mantra, guilt overwhelming him. Over and over again hoping eventually they’ll believe it.

                His mother sits up and bit and hugs his head to her shoulder. He burrows down as far as he can. He feels the heavy weight of his father’s hands massaging his back, and Blaine just keeps apologizing.

                “I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

                And that’s the part that scares him the most. He just doesn’t _know_ . He doesn’t know why he did this. Why he acts this way. He used to be so in control and refined. These past few months have been hell and he just doesn’t know why—can’t point a finger at one individual catalyst.

                “I don’t _know_ ,” he says again. It’s italicized with hurt, underlined by confusion.

                His spends the rest of the night draining his energy crying and sitting on the couch with his parents. His parents eventually take him up to his room and he goes to bed. When they kiss him goodnight and walk out of the room they leave the door open.

                That night after putting Blaine to bed, Mary sobs uncontrollably into her husband’s chest, blaming herself for everything even though Bill tells her that none of this is her fault.

                “None of this is _anyone’s_ fault,” he reminds over.

                Bill cries, too. Softly.

* * *

                The first words Blaine ever utters in therapy are the next afternoon.

                He walks sluggishly into the psychiatrist’s office after spending the day at home and practically falls onto the couch. It’s been a long night. A long day, too, and Blaine is so exhausted.

                His psychiatrist says hello, just like every Thursday. But this time Blaine responds.

                He’s fiddling with his fingers, looking down at his lap.

                “Sometimes I really scare myself,” he whispers, looking up at Dr. Cloyd. “And I don’t know what to do.”

* * *

                He goes to therapy every week after that.  And every week he talks. He eventually gets put on a low dose anti-depressant at his own persuasion.

                “I don’t want to be afraid of myself and the things I can do,” he says to Dr. Cloyd one week when she asks him why he’s so adamant about being on medication.

                She runs him through the drill: how to take it, what it will do, the side effects. She tells him that it’s not a cure, not a be-all-end-all, but that hopefully it should help. And if it doesn’t, the first thing he needs to do is call her.

                He leaves the office that day with the prescription and his father drives him to the pharmacy himself. When Blaine stays in the parked car in the parking lot of the Pharmacy his dad asks him what’s wrong.

                “I don’t want to go in,” Blaine mumbles.

                “What?” His father asks, confused.

                “I don’t want to go in,” Blaine says louder, clearer.

                “Why?” Bill asks kindly. He’s been working on his patience. Ever since Blaine started going to therapy Bill has been working on his patience. He wants to be there for Blaine, and he knows that Blaine has a hard time lately with expressing his thoughts and feelings.

                “I don’t want people to know I’m on anti-depressants,” Blaine says, cheek leaning against the cool window and gaze pointedly staring at nothing.

                “There’s nothing wrong with being on anti-depressants,” Bill responds, hand falling onto Blaine’s thigh and giving a comforting pat.

                “I know,” Blaine sighs. “But I don’t want people to know.” He pauses for a second, and Bill puts his newfound patience into work as he watches his son formulate a sentence. “I have friends that work here. And everyone goes here. I don’t want to run into anyone. Or have the pharmacist see the prescription and look at me weird.”

                Bill nods in understanding. “I understand,” he says, because he wants Blaine to know that he’s listening to him and hearing him and processing what Blaine’s saying. “How about I go in and fill the prescription and you stay in the car?” he suggests.

                “Thanks,” Blaine replies, looking at his father and giving him the piece of paper.

* * *

                There’s a solid three months where things don’t get better. As a matter of fact, there are a few days that get worse.

                The medication that Blaine is originally prescribed doesn’t do anything, and Blaine wavers back and forth from feeling okay about himself to feeling really upset and irrationally angry. He feels pressure in school, where his grades have slipped a bit—not dramatically, but his _A_ s have turned into _B_ s and that’s never happened before, and the stress that comes along with that is hard to deal with. On top of that, his friends start demanding more of his time, and he finds himself being tossed like a rag doll from person to person. Some days he enjoys the company, but other days he just wants to go home and lock himself in his room and decompress.

                Dr. Cloyd has taught him ways he can calm himself down when he’s feelings angry and overwhelmed, and he often finds himself practicing breathing exercises and squeezing stress balls in an effort to re-center himself. It doesn’t always work, and that’s when he gets so overwhelmed that he breaks down into hysterics, banging his fists against his head and calling himself stupid and juvenile and an idiot. His father has to wrap him up tight on more than one occasion to prevent Blaine from causing anyone any bodily harm, and the idea that his parents are scared for him—scared _of_   him—makes him reel in self-loathing.

                He eventually gets his medication switched to a higher dose. It takes a while for his body to get used to it, and Blaine finds himself often listless and directionless. He’s definitely not as angry as he’s been the past few months, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.

                “How’s school?” His father asks one night over dinner. He’s been on the new medication almost a full month, and his appetite has noticeably decreased. He writes in a journal almost nightly, a suggestion from Dr. Cloyd, and has an open communication with his parents about his feelings—something new and occasionally awkward, but still something he cherishes.

                “It’s good. I’m studying more, so hopefully my grades will show it,” he twirls some pasta on his fork but can’t bring himself to eat it.

                “And how’s the food going?” His mother asks, referring to Blaine’s new lack of appetite.

                “It’s…getting worse,” Blaine admits, ashamed of himself. Even before he was ever sent to Dr. Cloyd he ate. It wasn’t a lot, but now it’s even worse. He eats less than three full meals a day.

                “I think you should talk to Dr. Cloyd about that at your next appointment,” Mary says, drinking some iced tea.

                “Yeah,” Blaine sighs. “I will. I don’t like this medication.”

                Later that night, after Blaine finishes his homework and showers, the Andersons reconvene at the dining room table. Blaine’s holding a board game.

                “Sorry!?” Bill asks and laughs. “We haven’t played that game in a while.”

                “I know,” Blaine says. “I found it on the bottom of my closet.”

                Mary chuckles and sits down. “I don’t even know if I remember how to play this game anymore!”

                Bill squeezes her shoulder, “We’ll figure it out together.”

                It’s something they do at least once a week—family time. Sometimes it’s day trips to places, sometimes it’s card games and board games, sometimes it’s baking some new and interesting recipe, and sometimes it’s something totally and completely different. But whatever it is they’re doing, Family Time has definitely brought them closer together. They talk more openly and more frankly, and Bill and Mary finally learn a lot of the things that are going on in Blaine’s life. It’s always easier to talk when your hands are busy, and they take the opportunity to grow closer as a family through different activities. It’s definitely helped to make Blaine more comfortable with his depression, and he doesn’t mind too much speaking openly about it, though he’s still embarrassed.

                “I call blue,” Blaine says, picking up all the blue pieces. They spend the next hour eating popcorn and playing the game.

                At his next appointment with Dr. Cloyd, Blaine mentions how unsatisfied he is with his medication. He’s brought it up before, but he goes into more detail this time. Dr. Cloyd agrees to changing his medication again, but makes Blaine promise, like every time, that he’ll contact either his parents or her if he starts feeling more depressed than normal or has any inclination to self-harm.

                He readily agrees, and at the end of the session he walks away with a new prescription. He drove himself to his appointment today, and he’s not yet ready to walk into a pharmacy himself with a prescription for an anti-depressant. He spends a few minutes parked in the parking lot, but can’t do it. He gets a bit upset with himself and drives home instead. When his father gets home he explains the situation, and after a tight hug his father drops the prescription off at the pharmacy and comes home with a pizza.

                “I think it’s a pizza and movie kind of night,” he tells Blaine.

* * *

                The medication, and the therapy, slowly starts working. Blaine has fewer mood changes, he’s much less aggressive and violent, his grades go back to normal, and he doesn’t skip work. He hasn’t missed a Friday school day in a while, and he also hangs out with his friends a lot and smiles and laughs.

                He’s no longer completely ashamed of his depression, but outside of his immediate family, he’s never told anyone. The only reason that Cooper even knows is because he came home a few times and got suspicious when Blaine and their parents acted weirdly and tried to distract him from Blaine taking his medication and going to therapy.

                Bill and Mary tell Blaine that it is completely up to Blaine as to whether or not Cooper will be told. In the end Blaine tells Cooper and Cooper hugs him fiercely.

                “I always knew you were a little fucked up,” Cooper jokes.

                “It’s only because I have you for a brother,” Blaine laughs into the hug. “Hell, if it weren’t for how fucked up _you_ are I’d be normal!”

                They both laugh and spend the weekend hanging out and talking. They don’t talk about anything too personal, but it’s fun to finally catch up with Cooper, especially knowing that Cooper doesn’t judge him or think differently of him.

                But even though telling Cooper wasn’t so hard, Blaine is stubborn in his need for his friends to remain in the dark.

                Mr. Schuester knows that Blaine has ‘appointments’ on Thursdays. His parents contacted him and they had a parent-teacher conference. Mr. Schuester doesn’t know what types of appointments they are, but he does know that they’re important and that Blaine will never miss them. Mr. Schuester never penalizes Blaine for his absence, and for that Blaine is grateful.

* * *

                Eventually Blaine stops seeing Dr. Cloyd every Thursday. After a few months when Blaine’s medication is balanced out and he is doing well, they limit their appointments to every other Thursday. To celebrate, Blaine’s parents take him out for ice cream before dinner.

                “We’re really proud of you,” Mary says with tears in her eyes.

                Blaine smiles. “Thanks,” he says shyly.

                “You’re an incredibly strong person,” his father states, throwing an arm around Blaine’s shoulder and kissing his temple. “Don’t ever forget that.”

                Blaine hugs them both and goes back to licking his ice cream cone, smiling.

* * *

                Therapy becomes a normal part of his routine, and eventually he doesn’t even think about it.

                He starts telling a few people that he goes to therapy. It starts with Sam one afternoon when he asks why Blaine always leaves Glee early. Sam promises not to tell anyone and Blaine believes him.

                Blaine then tells Artie. But that’s purely an accident. It just slips out.

                He’s hanging out with Sam and Artie one Saturday and the conversation turns towards Kitty. The day before during practice Kitty made a low blow about how she’s the only one who has talent in the group and that she should be getting Blaine’s Regionals solo. Blaine got upset and almost stormed out of the room.

                “You have to stop taking the things she says so personally,” Artie says to him on Saturday.

                “My therapist tells me the same thing,” Blaine shakes his head, pausing only after he realizes what he just said.

                Everyone’s quiet for a second and Blaine coughs. “Uh, don’t tell anyone I said that,” he says.

                “It’s cool,” Artie nods, and they go back to playing video games.

                The end of the school year comes and goes. New Directions loses at Regionals to the Warblers and it’s extremely upsetting. Especially because it’s the last year for Blaine and his friends. But with the end of the school year comes the excitement for college, and Blaine refocuses all of his energy into preparing for that.

                He also refocuses his energy on Kurt, who, after coming home for the summer, makes an effort to reconnect with Blaine.

                They talk and text and hang out. They eventually work through the awkwardness and Kurt even gets over his feelings of hurt and betrayal.

                It happens one night in late July. They’re hanging out at Blaine’s house in the backyard drinking wine. Kurt’s a little buzzed, and Blaine hasn’t had anything to drink at all.

                “I forgive you, you know,” Kurt says airily. “Just in case I didn’t tell you before, I need you to know now.”

                They’re sitting next to each other, reclining n lawn chairs.

                Blaine nods. “I really am sorry, though,” he says, looking over at Kurt.

                Kurt smiles. “All is forgiven,” he says, eyes wide.

                He grabs the bottle from next to his chair and pours himself some more.  He goes to pour Blaine some but Blaine just laughs and moves his cup away.

                “No, no, no,” he smiles.

                “Whyyyy?” Kurt pouts. “You haven’t had any!”

                Blaine just laughs and shakes his head.

                “Spoilsport,” Kurt concludes. “Just a _little_ bit?” He begs. “I don’t want to be the only one drinking.”

                “I can’t,” Blaine says, suddenly all too serious.

                “Blaine, one glass of wine won’t kill you,” Kurt replies, rolling his eyes.

                “I know, I know. I just…can’t drink alcohol,” he shrugs.

                “Why?” Kurt asks curiously.

                Blaine looks out at the yard in front of him and bites his lip.

                “I’m on anti-depressants,” he says, not looking at Kurt.

                “Oh,” Kurt says.

                When Blaine looks over Kurt’s cup is on the table in between them.

                “Since when?” He asks Blaine.

                “A while,” Blaine responds.

                “How long is a while?” Kurt asks.

                “Hmm. I don’t know. Not yet a year. I could do the math if you wanted.”

                “So it was after we broke up?” Kurt asks, voice wavering.

                “Yes,” Blaine responds. When he looks up at Kurt and sees his eyes watering he elaborates. “No! No, Kurt. It’s not because of you or what happened with us. It happened a while after we broke up. It was just a lot of different things all piling up at once, and I was having trouble. I started seeing a psychiatrist and was put on anti-depressants. All is good now.”

                Kurt swings his legs over the chair and leans his elbows on his thighs, a movement Blaine immediately repeats. Their knees are knocking when Kurt talks. “You promise?” Kurt asks.

                “I swear,” Blaine says.

                 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Set around The Role You Were Born To Play/Glease/Dynamic Duets. Blaine’s parents notice that he is displaying signs of depression and take him to a therapist. Bonus points if there is mentions of Blaine’s dad struggling to accept him in the past/present (no abuse); Blaine discussing his depression with Kurt; or having Cooper be involved (visiting/talking to Blaine.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed it. It was a bit tough to write and I was afraid at how it would be perceived.


End file.
